I've been thinking about memories- the fleeting fragments of information we collect from the beginning of our unique lives- and I've concluded that in the grand scheme of things, they're actually rather insignificant. Truthfully, each man's recollections mean nearly nothing for society or change. They're unimportant. Invalid. And if we're honest with ourselves, most memories are silly sentiments.
Still, the fact that we're capable of remembering brief snippets from when we're young- the way the sun reflected on your hair, how your skin felt after a sunburn, how lonely you felt, how peaceful you felt in the shade- they're beautiful things. These little bits of data are just for you and you alone. No one in the entire world will remember the same alignment of details that you do. They're safe in your own mind, which is powerfully unique. There's something incredibly beautiful and melancholy about that.
Can you think back to your first memory? I've been asked this for years, and for the life of me I can't settle on a satisfying answer. Maybe it was this one; when I was 3 or 4, or maybe 2 because I can't remember having a sister yet, I went with my parents to my first beach in Mendocino, and I was so awed that I kept walking further and further into the ocean, until a giant wave collapsed over me and engulfed me with seawater. I remember the shear panic I was feeling with my whole head immersed, yet utterly fascinated by the way the sky looked from underneath the wave. I wasn't strong enough to pull myself out, so I floated there in my own little wet universe, completely powerless. My parents were quick to pull me out of the water; they dried me off with a towel, and they were extremely concerned to know if I was alright. They brought me into the car we had at the time to calm me down, which I think was a dark green mini van. I remember their sincere eyes and their loving strokes on my scrawny legs covered in sand. They still look at me like that when something's wrong. And you'd think I'd be panicking after nearly drowning in the water. You'd think I'd have a deep-seated phobia of the ocean. But I have the distinct memory of laughing. I laughed about it. "Are you sure you're okay? You were in there for a while," they'd ask. I kept on giggling, which seemed to be contagious. "Yeah, I'm fine!" I said. I remember sitting there thinking about how powerful the ocean is and how exciting it is that I survived and how incredibly safe I felt around my parents.
Then I think, why exactly do I remember that? What's the significance of me nearly drowning as a kid? Why did my brain find it necessary to hold onto this piece of information and not anything earlier? Why not when I started breastfeeding or when I learned to walk? It's the fact that this memory was important enough to hold onto for 17 or 18 years that fascinates me. Our brains are incredibly mysterious, and some things we'll never get to the bottom of, like the true meaning of our dreams or our memories, but it really is amazing to think about.
